Writers are people who feel deeply. Their skin tingles at a drop of rain, their hands soak up texture like a sponge to moisture. They walk the world as observers of the details forgotten; a meaningless moment can be the brink of a story, or a springboard for reckless abandon. And so the mundane becomes the spectacular and that which is real remains surreal. Writers do not walk but press forward, they do not simply hope - but desire, breathing in the world more deeply, their lungs filling with inspiration. Yet on their brow lingers perspiration, a writer's constant companion. Is this why we are so troubled? Do we feel what others cannot? Do our genes contain more sensory receptors than the rest of the population? If this is the case, then perhaps we did not choose to write, but were born to.